


A Great Man (Loyalty)

by Malicei



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Leashes, M/M, Oneshot, Pre-Slash, bdsm undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malicei/pseuds/Malicei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people don't understand Sherlock and don't care to try. There are still comments on Sherlock's perceived lack of empathy and general failure at tact. They don't understand why John follows. John must be deluded, confused, a victim of Sherlock's manipulative ways-</p>
<p>But they're wrong. Sherlock has never sought to control him.</p>
<p>A freed dog follows out of love, not force.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Great Man (Loyalty)

_A great man, and maybe someday he could even be a good one._

 

There is something… different about Sherlock. That, at least, is undeniable.

He is unlike any other men John has ever met. He supposes most people feel similarly. (Most people's reactions tended to be a _tad_ more negative, however.)

Sherlock's _different_ and tends to take people off guard as a result.

They simply have no idea on how to even begin to deal with the whirlwind that is Sherlock and Sherlock does not help them by driving them away with his uncomfortable truths and the whole making-people-feel-like idiots thing that he does.

At times, however, sometimes he wonders if there isn't a bit more to it than 'different'. John had always been very accepting of…well, pretty much anything. He'd taken the skull and lack of social tact in stride, even the bloody (no pun intended) body parts stuffed into their fridge.

It wasn't unreasonable to assume that most people would have called the police or at least fled someplace far, far away from the man calling himself Britain's greatest private consultant. At times, John wonders if he's crazy for sticking with this madness. Sure, he's not got too much to his name - but he's been responsible in saving up a little over the years with his military pension and locum work (What use did he have for splurging out when he was living day-to-day, not knowing if today was the day he'd be nothing more than a name carved in stone for Harry to regret? It just hadn't seemed worth it. And he did care about her. But that was somewhere inside him too coloured by bad memories for it to be easy, so the bitter reminder would just suit them perfectly, wouldn't it.)

It's ever so easy for a man who doesn't care if he lives or dies to get caught up in someone like Sherlock. Sherlock, reckless, irresponsible, major contribution to John's surceptibility to heart attacks.

John loves it. Loves the action. The adrenaline. It makes him feel alive, and that's a whole world better than being in that suffocating cocoon of safety and routine and not caring about anything anymore. In that way, he's as bad as Sherlock in dealing with boredom.

 

He'll never admit it, not out loud. Not to anyone, not even Sherlock _(because Sherlock doesn't need the words to know that John needs him.)_

* * *

 

Still, there's just _something._ John was _(is, still at heart)_ a soldier, he trusts his instincts.

Sherlock…is not a danger to him. So when Sally accuses Sherlock of being a psychopath ready to chop people up just to stave off the boredom, he doesn't believe it. There's not enough interest.

Sherlock simply doesn't care enough about other people to actively hate them. How could you hate something you believe is so below you to not know better than stupidity? Sherlock sees no reason not to manipulate others, but neither does he seem to get any pleasure from controlling others.

Sometimes John gets the ghost of idea that maybe Sherlock indulges in John the way someone might do their favourite pet. Good dog, John. So loyal, and so quickly. Isn't your master ever so smart?

It's not as terrible sounding a thought as it should be.

 

…Good boy, John.

* * *

 

It turns out that Sherlock can and does care.

It's not enough for the lady who dies in the name of the game, not enough for Soo Lin. Too late for that. Too late for regrets.

But it's something.

It was never quite a game though and Sherlock knew that. It only happens to matter when Sherlock himself is personally affected because then there's no distance that allows for rationality unclouded by emotions and-

And John would die for the mad bastard anyway.

And Sherlock _cares_ , cares enough that he's willing to return the favour.

* * *

 

He dreams of baritone rumblings at his ear.

"John," it says. " _Come,_ John."

It walks off without looking back, confident John will follow. Eventually. When it counts.

John doesn't shiver, because that's not how dreams work. Everything is perfectly reasonable and logical in a dream, even the most outlandish of things.

It looks like Sherlock, it talks like Sherlock, it acts like Sherlock.

It's not, of course.

Somehow in the way of dream knowledge John knows this without knowing how he knows this. Sherlock's the one who knew things and why. Not John, no matter how much Sherlock might have encouraged him at times.

"Come back, Sherlock." he says anyway. "Wait for me, Sherlock!"

Sherlock only comes back on his own terms. But even John doubts Sherlock can come back from the dead.

John is so very lost. He's got nothing tying him down and thus nothing really holding him back from following-

But there's just something, something he can't quite put his finger on.

Maybe he just wants to _believe_.

('Blind belief is stupid, John. How could anyone believe so completely in something to the point that they would blind themselves to any other possibilities?')

God, _Sherlock._

("Is that a method of expressing your exasperation with me or a legitimate answer?")

_Please,_ Sherlock.

(There's no reply.)

* * *

 

Apparently John shouldn't doubt Sherlock. Not that he did, apart from ruling out the things that seemed impossible.

Because apparently Sherlock CAN come back from the dead! Almost like he came back just to prove John wrong ('honestly, how could you be so stupid? I was obviously blah-de-blah-de-blah!')

_Wanker._

(…is what he says outwardly, but internally is a different matter. _Sherlock's back! Sherlock's back!_

_Sherlock!_

_Sherlock!_

_…Sherlock!)_

* * *

 

"You're just Sherlock's little doggy, following him around everywhere like a lost puppy. Don't you know he's just using you?"

John is not helpless and he's proved many times over he can fight his own fights. As brilliant and talented Sherlock was at mental gymnastics, it was John who dealt in the physical realm. They complemented each other that way. Sherlock's like a particularly long stick insect, not really much use in a fight in terms of raw power (and they both know it.)

The git would probably just get them both sent to hospital when John tried to stop the mad bastard from getting him killed. Counterproductive, really.

But Sherlock steps in for John anyway and that feels amazing.

_I'd follow him anywhere, to the ends of the earth and further if he wanted,_ John realises almost unconsciously. _This is a man worth following. Worth fighting for. Worth dying for._

_Worth **living** for._

_If that makes me his dog, so be it. Dogs are loyal and unjudgemental._

Dogs love unconditionally.

_Love?_

He hesitates to use the word because of the connotations, but it's true. Maybe he can't quite imagine them in bed together or kissing but not all love looks like that anyway. He loves Harry, but it's not like that either.

_People can think what they like_ , he decides. _They'll always see what they want to see. I'm not going to let that stop me._

John hopes his trust was rightly placed because there's no going back now. He's let Sherlock in and giving him everything and now there's nothing left for him but to trust that Sherlock won't abuse that.

* * *

 

They were bound to stumble across some porn at some point, rummaging around someone's apartment like this.

Hm. Not bad, actually. Nice tits.

Pity he can't keep one or two (taking potential evidence of tampering with a crime scene for a lark is what Sherlock does, not John. Didn't look good at all.)

John starts to turn away and suddenly pauses. Then he giggles. He's not really one to judge, but really? Adults dressed as babies - bibs, nappies and all?

_Whatever got them off,_ he thinks amusedly. Most of it seemed fairly normal. Most of it.

The rest?

Well. Seemed the kinky bastard would have gotten along quite well with that Adler bird.

He's about to hunt Sherlock down _(where'd he disappear off to now? John had only taken his eyes off of him for a few seconds, dammit!)_ when he notices the printout of the man on a leash. He does a double-take.

A handsome young man kneels at the feet of what is presumably the bloke's master, collared and vulnerable in his nakedness. He's bound by a leash held taut by the master, pulling the poor guy close by the throat.

The master is a creature made of long pale limbs and dark curls and shadows over a face that John somehow feels _-knows-_ should have that distinctive face he knows so well (with those ever so piercing eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut you on.)

There's something entrancing in the way the young man exposes his throat, held captive with that simple collar by the man who holds the leash. Owned, a living possession. Bound, connected.

He belongs to him.

John reaches out to touch it absently before catching himself.

_What…what was that just now?_

Why'd he do that?

He doesn't know.

"-hn! Jooooooohn! Come here, come see, come see!"

_How old are you, five?_

 

…His heart's still thudding in his chest.

* * *

 

His dreams are no longer blood and sand but a lone figure at the window with a beautiful voice and everything John wants but can't have.

"Such a good boy, John. Thank you for your service."

"Wait, Sherlock! Are you leaving me?! You can't- I thought- I thought-"

_I'm loyal,_ he thinks. Without the reservation of waking consciousness, it's the only time he's able to put into words things that are probably better left unsaid. _Don't abandon me._

Dream Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Attachment? How sentimental of you. I'd thought you better than that, John."

The words hurt even when he should logically know how irrational he's being. But dreams don't tend to be logical and he freezes.

"Silly John," Dream Sherlock says, pityingly. "Didn't you know I was only using you? They did try to tell you, you know. Poor Sally was only trying to look out for you."

"That's- that's not true. You care. Y-you died for me!"

Dream Sherlock considers this for a moment. "True at the time. Death was interesting. But now I'm bored, John. You know I need to keep my mind occupied and now you bore me, John."

No.

"Y-you-! I can still help, y'know. You say that I help just by coming along with you, even if I'm not nearly quite as brilliant as you are!"

The pity is almost worse. "If I'd wanted a puppy following me around everywhere, there are plenty of animal shelters needing people to adopt."

_No._

Sherlock drops John's leash.

_…Leash?_

What?

Startled, John reaches up to finger at his throat and finds a neat leather collar attached to the leash trailing down from his neck. His dog tags are attached.  _John H. Watson._ Identical to his real military tags - except this time there's a new addition.

_Property of Sherlock Holmes. If found, please return to 221B Baker St._

Sherlock walks over briskly and pulls out a pocket knife, all business as he neatly slashes out the line.

"You're free, now, John." Sherlock tells him, not unkindly. "Go on."

_If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they're yours. If they don't? Maybe they never were yours in the first place._

John doesn't move.

Sherlock sighs. "Goodbye, John." he says, and leaves anyway.

* * *

 

John wakes up in a cold sweat, heart humping and not moving as he goes through the motions of assessing his surroundings for danger. One of his souvenirs from his tour.

As usual, it's nothing. Probably just the fear from the nightmare waking him up. One of the few good things about having a flatmate who was practically an insomniac was that Sherlock slept like the dead when he did actually remember he was human and needed sleep. And if Sherlock was up it wouldn't have mattered any way, Sherlock at least had enough tact not to say anything about shouting from John's presumably 'obvious' PTSD related nightmares.

God, he really needed a drink. Bit early in the morning to be breaking out anything other than tea, though.

John stumbles into the kitchen and mumbles a "Mornin', Sherlock" before setting the kettle onto boil.

He freezes when he sees the dog collar on the counter. Oh. _Oh._ Of course Sherlock knows, Sherlock always knows everything. He'd known that Sherlock could be unintentionally cruel, he just hadn't thought he'd rub it in like this.

Sherlock follows his gaze and blinks. "Something interests you about that collar. Normally, you wouldn't have looked twice at something so mundane when you could clearly see the foot I have decomposing less than a foot away. What is it, then?"

John gapes for a moment more. "What? And oi, you know what I've told you about body parts next to where we prepare food." he scolds. "Also, what?"

Sherlock gives him a look. "Even you're not that dumb, John. Don't pretend to be stupider than you actually, most people are idiots in the first place. Explain."

John takes a long-suffering breath in. Because of course. Of course, even if Sherlock hadn't known, he would have figured it immediately.

"Don't, Sherlock." he says instead. "Just... don't."

"Why not?" Sherlock's expression is almost…hurt. He never did react well to not being able to know everything once something piqued his interest, the giant sticky-beak.

John gives Sherlock a look. The deadest look he can muster. That's how he feels right now.

Y'know. _Dead._

To Sherlock's credit, he seems to have been able to connect the dots and figured out that this was a delicate subject. "Well, alright then." he says, voice small and lost. Confused, for once.

John's not really sure how he feels about that. It's nice to have a reminder that Sherlock is just as human as the rest of them and yet-

It just feels, well. Not right. Not good.

But he ignores the feeling, stuffs it down over a self-righteous indignance that's beginning to rise. "Yes, well, it damn well better be alright. I do have a life outside of you, Sherlock. You don't need me to tell you everything about myself. In any case, I'm sure you could figure it out if you really wanted to." he says, tone deliberately mild for all it seems to cut through Sherlock more.

He looks pointedly at his newspaper and ignores the eyes attempting to burn through his body and look into his soul.

"…Have I got something on my face?" John asks finally, after five straight minutes of this treatment.

Sherlock quickly looks away. "No, not at all," he says, and walks off, giant strides resounding down the hallway.

Joh n blinks and puts his newspaper down, exasperated. "DIDN'T YOUR MUM TELL YOU IT'S RUDE TO STARE?" John shouts through the walls.

 

Honestly. _Drama queen._

* * *

 

Sherlock…doesn't pry. It's a downright miracle.

* * *

 

Sherlock's not perfect, but no one is. But he's trying, John can see. He's trying to be a better man for John's sake.

And really, turns out  that's all John needs.

Most people don't understand Sherlock and don't care to try. There are still comments on Sherlock's perceived lack of empathy and general failure at tact. They don't understand why John follows. John must be deluded, confused, a victim of Sherlock's manipulative ways-

But they're _wrong._ Sherlock has never sought to control him.

A freed dog follows out of _love,_ not force.

They've still time to learn, and grow. John will follow Sherlock wherever it might lead them.

_A great man and maybe someday he could even be a good one,_ someone once said about Sherlock. Maybe John'll live to see that. That'd be nice.

In the meantime, there's still cases to solve and bodies in the fridge to yell at Sherlock out.

"John! Are you coming? There's been a murder and-"

And John wouldn't have it any other way.

"Coming, Sherlock!"

 

As always, John follows.


End file.
